Hey Now, You're an All Star

One day I was driving down 690 towards Syracuse. It was a nice summer day, mostly sunny and warm. My windows were rolled up and the AC was on. Around the Lakeland exit, there’s an older forest green sedan in the left hand lane. He’s going slower than I am. I ride his bumper for a few seconds until he moves over. I pass aggressively because at the time I actually thought it meant something. I drive past and think nothing of it.

A couple miles down the road, near the Hiawatha exit, the same car pulls up alongside me. The driver is waving his hands and gesticulating wildly, trying to get my attention. I think he’s trying to tell me there’s something wrong with my car; I have a light out or my gas cap is open. Whatever, I’ll check it out when I get where I’m going.

About a mile further is my exit, Wet Genesee Street. I pull off and the car follows me. I’m a little worried now, thinking, “Shit, I pissed off a gang member.” The driver is this big, bald black dude. There’s a red light at the bottom of th ramp. I stop and he pulls up along my right side. He motions for me to roll down my window. I figure, all right, fine, let’s see what this is all about.

I roll down my window, he looks right at me and says, “Mmm, you are gorgeous,” with the gay lisp and all.

I’m stunned. “Uh… what?”

“You are fine, sweet thang!”

I can’t even come up with words. My mouth is just hanging open.

“Do you work out?”

“I… uh… um… no,” is all I can manage to stutter. It’s a lie, but honestly, I’m so astounded I can’t even think straight.

The light turns and I book it. He follows me, screaming his number out the window and “Call me! Call me!” as I shake my head going, “No! No!”

About nine months later, I was working a temp job at an insurance company in downtown Syracuse. I’m washing my hands in the restroom and another guy walks out of one of the stalls. He’s pretty big, standing over six feet and probably close to 250 pounds. He’s in his mid 30’s, but his hair is already starting to go gray.

“Hey man, how are you?” he asks as he moves next to me to wash his hands. This is a little uncomfortable, but not technically a breach of men’s bathroom etiquette, so I respond with a simply, “Good, you?”

“You been here long? Where do you sit? I just started my customer service training.”

He seems like a nice guy, so I play along. “Just a few weeks. I’m a temp. I work over… in that general direction,” I say, pointing.

“That’s cool. I’m Mike, by the way,” he says, offering his hand. This is really pushing the boundaries, but he just washed them, so whatever. I shake his hand, “I’m Mike too.”

“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I saw him around a lot. Well, not so much around. He came to my cubicle two or three times a week. Even when he finished his training and moved to the third floor (I was on the sixth), he’d come by on his breaks. I mostly thought nothing of it. He was just a lonely guy and for whatever reason, he’d chosen me to be his work friend.

It wasn’t until he gave me his number and said we should hang out that I began to think something was up. I just nodded my head and said, “Maybe.” I threw his number away as soon as he left. He came to my cubicle on a Monday, “Hey, how come you didn’t call me?”

“Oh. Uh… I must’ve lost your number.”

“That’s too bad. You could’ve come over, I would’ve cooked us dinner. We could’ve relaxed and had a good time.”

That totally set off alarms in my head. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Here’s my number again. Call me sometime.”

“Okay, I will.” I’m such an asshole. I wouldn’t, and I promptly lost his number in the trash again.

I got laid off a few weeks later, so I never knew for certain if he was trying to hook up with me. He apparently came out to a friend of mine that worked in the same building, so my guess is probably yes.

Finally, there was a night in Armory Square. I was out with some friends, and we were drinking, because that’s what you do. We started at Syracuse Suds. I had had two long islands, so I’m pretty much in the bag. We decide to cross the street and go to Teddy’s. When we talk in, there’s a guy sitting at the table near the door. He touches my arm. Not like a sharp, “Hey dude, what’s up?” touch I might get from someone I know, but a soft, lingering, “Heeeyyy, how you doin’” touch.

Like I said, I’m pretty trashed, so I don’t recognize it as the latter. “What’re you drinking?” he asks. I look at him. It’s dark and I’m drunk, so I’m squinting. I’m trying to figure out if I know him. Did I go to school with him? Did I work with him? Is he a friend of a friend, what?

“What are you drinking?” he repeats.

And then it hits me. It happened again. It happened again.

“I, uh… I don’t know yet,” was the best answer I could come up with as I made a beeline for my friends. As I recounted what had just happened, they laughed and called me stupid. “Dude, you could’ve gotten a free drink out of it.”

This is all sort of amusing to me. I don’t think I put off the gay vibe. Most of my straight friends do, though. It’s good to know that if I ever decide to switch teams, I’m already an all star.

Look Ma, I'm in the Paper

So, there was some controversy at my high school this past week. Apparently a parent found a book (a choice of multiples, mind you) offensive and demanded it removed from the curriculum. I called shenanigans and wrote to the newspaper about it. It was printed in the Opinion section of the May 25 edition of the Post Standard. Here it is:

To the Editor:

In response to the article about "A Girls Life Online" being used n Baldwinsville schools, I commend Mr. Crobar for building a relationship with his daughter that allows her to feel comfortable askign questions, and where he is involved enough in her life to read one of her school books. The world needs more parents like him.

However, I take issue with how he handled the situation. English teachers are very sensitive to censorship and banning books. As a future English teacher, I know that Ms. Casler would have vigorously defended the book. However, English teachers are also sensitive to the delicate nature of questionable material, and I am sure Ms. Casler would have allowed his daughter to choose a different book, ahd she been approached first.

I am pleased that the school district stood behind Ms. Casler. One only has to look at a banned books list to see how many pieces of classic literature have been banned due to objectionable content.

I am sorry that he found a book warning of a very serious and real issue to today's teens objectionable. But his right to decide what is inappropriate ends with his daughter.

Mike Edinger
Baldwinsville

There is very little in this world that gets me more riled up than issues of censorship. It's so bad that I can hardly articulate the sheer rage I feel when I witness it happening. I'm amazed that I was able to write that letter to begin with, let alone do so without a massive amount of F-bombs and calling people all sorts of names. That's a good idea for a future project- a manifesto of my opinions of censorship. Until then, I leave you with this: if you find something offensive, don't read it. But don't tell me that I can't.

Everything I Ever Wanted to Tell You, But Was too Afraid to Ask

What am I? Like, do I have a chance? Did I ever have a chance? Do you have feelings for me? What’s going on? I know you said you didn’t want to lead me on, and I don’t think you have, since that sort of implies intention. But you have been sending mixed signals.

This sounds like I’m mad. I’m not. I’m confused. It seems like there’s this elephant in the room and we keep dancing around it (yay for mixed metaphors). And I wanted to use it to segue into how I feel about you.

I think you’re amazing. I think you’re absolutely beautiful. But more than that, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re caring, you’re dedicated, and yes, you’re strong and independent. And all of this makes me absolutely crazy about you. I’m totally into you. I want to know everything about you. I’m genuinely interested in everything you have to say and what you’re thinking. I want to know what gets you excited and passionate, so I can be that way too.

I love hanging out with you. I love just being around you. The best time that I’ve had with you? Those fifteen minutes you feel asleep in my arms. Remember how I stopped talking the other night? That’s because I just wanted to be quiet and let the moment last as long as possible. I wasn’t lying when I said I was perfectly okay standing there holding you all night while you slept. Every time I see you, I just want to wrap my arms around you and pull you close and hold you tight. And it’s the thought of doing it again that helps me fall asleep at night (that’s not creepy, is it?).

I love kissing you. You’re so soft and tender. I’m gentle because I don’t want to put you off, and I’m glad that you like that. The world really does spin, and I get all light headed. I always feel like I’m walking on air right after. It’s such a wonderful experience.

I love the time I spend with you. I love our conversations (seriously, sexy raspberries? Sign me up). I love how you ask me if I’m sure I’m not gay (No, I’m not. Really. I'm pretty sure reading this will convince you). I love it when you laugh at my god awful mispronunciations. I love your smile and your little dimples that come with it. I love the thing you do with your tongue when you’re giving me a hard time. I love it when you laugh; I think that’s why I try so hard to make you do it.

The other night, I realized how much I care about you. When you started telling me what happened, my thoughts were, "Oh no. Don't let this end badly." And, reletively speaking, it didn't. But I said I was up for 45 minutes after you were. That's the truth. I was shaking. I was so concerned about how you were. I wanted to make sure you were okay (I know you said you were okay, but still). I started off concerned, and I stayed that way. Then I was angry. I was furious. My hands literally were shaking with rage. You don't need protection, but the lengths I would have gone through to ensure your safety know no bounds.

I’m sad that I didn’t get to make you dinner, though (or glad, depending on how well or poorly it might’ve turned out). I wish we could’ve gone on a couple of walks and watch the sunsets over the lake. I think we both would’ve enjoyed them.

God, I feel like such a dork for telling you all of this stuff over AIM and through a blog. I really wanted to do this face to face, but I totally chickened out. But it’s probably better because I don’t know if I would’ve had the balls to say this to you. At least, not without some liquid courage, but then you might not have taken me seriously. And I’m sorry for just dumping all of this on you; it’s selfish and totally unfair to you. I just like you so much it hurts sometimes (it’s not you, or your fault, I promise, so don’t feel bad). The best parts of my day are when I’m with you or talking with you; or when I’m able to be distracted by something enough so that I’m can actually stop thinking about you, which, honestly, doesn’t happen much. And I know it’s totally selfish to say all of these things, but I don’t know if I could live with myself having not told you.

I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship. More than anything, I like talking to you. I don’t know if you ever picked up on this, but for me, it’s go hard or go home. I hope that at the very least, we can be friends and talk and have fun. But it’s part of my nature to just put every thing on the table and let the pieces fall where they may.

That Great Conciousness of Life

One of my favorite books is On the Road, not so much because I think it’s well written (it’s all right. It’s not Gatsby or Invisible Man, but it’s better than anything I can come up with, and damn it if the mad ones and roman candles sentence doesn’t get me every time), but mostly for what it stands for.

I have a love affair with freedom, adventuring, the road, and the experiences picked up along the way. In fact, the experience or the stories I create and learn are the only reason I do anything. It’s something I have a hard time explaining to people.

I was going to take a road trip this summer to Washington. State, not D.C. The map above is the route I was going to take. I was going to see Rushmore. I was going to stop in the middle of American, with no lights and a clear sky, and stare at the stars. All of them, not the miniscule numbers I see in Syracuse, let alone a place like New York City. I was going to be made tiny in the vast expanse of flatness that is the Plains states. I was going to be awed at he majesty of the Rockies, especially as I watched sunrises and sunsets. And I was going to bring a camera, a video recorder, and friends. Most importantly, I was going to bring a pen. I was going to share it with whoever was willing ot listen, because that’s what life is about, making those connections and sharing those experiences.

I was going to stand on the shore of the Pacific Ocean and say to myself, “So this is wht Lewis and Clark felt like two hundred years ago.” And then I was going ot realize it was nothing like that they felt as they didn’t have cars and roads and everything they could ever need a mere convenience store away. What they would have had is a pure, unaltered Pacific coastline, clear water and clear skies. They would have had the experience eof true adventuring that exists so rarely in the world today- the knowledge of not knowing at all what’s at the top of the next hill or beyond the next bend in the river.

“Why don’t you just fly there?” was the question I was asked the most. Nobody understood when I told them it wasn’t about getting to Portland. It was about the experiences along the way. It’s never about the destination, it’s about the journey. It’s about seeing the things above, sharing the experiences with somebody, and the people met along the way. “I don’t see why you want to drive to Washington,” they’d say. To which I could only respond, “Why not?”

But that plan fell through, so I’m going to have to put off those experiences. But I’ve come to realize I had the wrong idea.

These guys, however, had the right idea. Except the 106 hours part. Fuck that. Give me six months. And you know what? I can drive to Alaska, I’ll go there too. But you know who has an even better idea? This guy. Oh, the things he’s seen and the people’s he’s met. That’s what I want. I want to learn other people’s stories while making my own. There is nothing nobler in the world.

Kerouac and McCandless knew what it was all about. Just get up and go, and chronicle the story.

Sprawl

“Sprawl!”
There was a chorus of thumps and thuds as 25 bodies hit the floor.
Welcome to wrestling practice.

Wrestling practice took place in the aptly named wrestling room. The wrestling room was tiny, maybe 30 feet by 30 feet. The floor was padded with red wrestling mats, on which were the starting circles. There were nine circles in three rows of three. The walls were padded as well in case anyone was driven into them. The door was open and the room was cool, but only for a short while. As soon as practice started, the door was shut, the heat turned up, and the room got very, very hot, very, very fast.

Some of the wrestlers wore practice singlets similar to the uniform that they would wear in an actual match. I didn’t. Instead, I wore the red nylon shorts with “B’ville Wrestling” stitched into the right leg. I wore a gray t-shirt with two wrestlers in the referee position on the front with the words Baldwinsville Wrestling in red print. Both of these were holdovers from my two years on the modified wrestling team in 7^th and 8^th grade. I wore a kneepad on my right knee because it was my shooting leg and it was susceptible to mat burn. I wore black wrestling shoes with a smooth bottom, similar to dance shoes. Street shoes could stick on the mat, injuring a wrestler or damaging the mat.

Drills started with the drop step drill. I started in the traditional wrestler’s stance- strong foot slightly forward, knees bent, back straight and head forward. I would push off my rear foot, dropping down to my strong knee. My rear leg would slide forward and become the forward leg. The end position was almost like being knighted, except I was down on my right knee. I started at one end of the room and go all the way across the room, turn around, and do it all the way back. Five times each way. This is how I was supposed to shoot in for my takedowns. This was convenient because after the drop step drill were the takedown drills.

For takedown drills, I partnered up with my friend Josh since we were about the same size. I was 5’7” and 120 pounds while he was 5’9” and 125 pounds. The drop step allowed me to shoot in deep and have a solid grip for whatever takedown I was practicing. There was the double leg takedown, which is exactly what the name implies. I would grab both legs and sweep my opponent off his feet, using my head as a pivot point to turn him to one side. There was the single leg takedown, which was just like its double leg brother. There was the fireman’s carry, where I would grab my opponent’s arm as I shot in. I would grab the same leg as the arm and pick him up on my shoulders, like a fireman, and roll him back wards, scoring the takedown.

Now I was sweating heavily. My breathing was heavy and my heart was going fast. Making matters worse was the fact that my partner was supposed to resist my takedowns. Takedowns became a lot more difficult when there was 125 pounds falling onto my shoulders. Back and forth we went, sometimes getting the takedown, sometimes not.

Takedowns took a lot of energy, but escaping and reversals took a lot more. I would start on the bottom, Josh on top. When the whistle blew, it was my job to get away or reverse him and get on top. His job was to make sure I didn’t. More often than not, it was a race to see whether or not I could sit through before he would drive into me, putting me on my stomach. Once one of those invents happened, we stopped and started over.

I was hot and wet, and I was tired beyond belief. Practice wasn’t over yet. All I got was a two-minute water break. I staggered out of the room with some other wrestlers into the hallway. I stood against the wall and allowed myself to slide down to the floor. The air was several degrees cooler there than inside the wrestling room. “All right ladies! Back in the room,” yelled Coach Porillo.

Free wrestling was about to start. If there was a meet the next day, this was when it was determined would wrestle in contested weight classes. It was just like a real wrestling match. There were three, three-minute rounds. The first round, both wrestlers were standing. Both wrestlers would try for the takedown and then the pin. In the second round, one wrestler was on the bottom, the other on top. The third round was the same as the second, except the positions were reversed. If at any point there was a pin, both wrestlers started over in whatever position they were in at the beginning of the round.

The matches were like running as fast as I could for nine minutes. They just sucked the energy right out of me. Sometimes, there were two matches and I could barely move.

But that wasn’t the end of practice. Oh no, I still had to endure the cardio portion of practice. This was essentially 20 minutes of hell. I had been pushing myself for over an hour and a half. Practice pushed me to my limit, and cardio blew me right through it.

Cardio started off with me in wrestler’s stance. “Go,” shouted Coach Porillo. I started sprinting in place. There was pattering all around the room as all the other wrestlers did the same. It took about five seconds for my lungs and leg muscles to start burning. “Sprawl,” yelled the coach. I shot my legs back and fell to my stomach, landing with a thud. There were thuds and thumps all around. Sprawling was how I defended against a takedown. I shot back up in an instant, returning to sprinting in place. A few seconds later, “Sprawl!” I threw myself to the ground then back up again. “Sprawl!” Down and back up. Sweat was running down my face. It was dripping off strands of my hair. “Sprawl! Sprawl! Sprawl,” the coach yelled out one after the other, barely letting me get to my feet before sending me back down to my stomach. “Sprawl! Down!” This was another part of hell. I had to do ten push-ups whenever the coach decided that he hated us. Every time the coach called “down” I yelled back with the appropriate number. I was soon back up and running in place. “Sprawl! Down!” I did ten more push-ups. “Hold it!” I had to hold the down position of the push-up. Push-ups were difficult when I couldn’t feel my arms any more, and holding the down position was even harder.

This went on for ten minutes. Practice still wasn’t over yet. Right outside the door to the wrestling room was a stairwell. There was a flight of stairs going up three floors, with 18 steps between each floor. I remember this because counting stairs was the only way I could keep going. The cooler air did nothing to stop the burning in my lungs, and every breath couldn’t possibly be deep enough. My legs were on fire, but running didn’t take me any further from the flames. I would get tunnel vision, and count the steps one by one. Cancer patients are told to take it one day at a time. I took stairs as one step at a time. At the beginning, I would look forward to the down step, but it didn’t take long for me to hate those as well and yearn for the moment when the coach would yell out, “one more time, ladies! One more time and you’re done!”

At any point during all of this, I could’ve stopped. I could’ve not tried so hard for the take down, or for the escape. I could’ve let my partner pin me for a few seconds of respite. I could’ve not sprinted as hard in the wrestling room, or done the push-ups a little bit slower so that I didn’t actually do ten. I could’ve collapsed when I was holding the down position using exhaustion as an excuse, and nobody would’ve thought twice. I could’ve taken the stairs slower. I could’ve not pushed myself so hard.

But really, I couldn’t. Pushing myself that hard was all on me. I had to prove to myself that I could do it. That’s what I loved about wrestling. Despite the fact that I was on the wrestling team, wrestling was an individual sport. When I was out on the mat, there was me and the other guy. I didn’t have a guy in right field to make a spectacular diving catch to save my no-hitter. There wasn’t a wide receiver I could blame for dropping a pass right to the numbers. There wasn’t someone relying on me to be perfect. It was up to me and me alone to go out there on the mat and put up the ‘W.’ This independence allowed someone like me to go out and compete with a sort of wild abandon. I’d leave everything on the mat, and it was either good enough or it wasn’t. There was a beautiful simplicity in competing in wrestling.